Green Eyes and Stubby Hands
by midgewood58
Summary: While visiting his family, Tony reflects on the things that are absent in his life. Pre-s1.


**Green Eyes and Stubby Hands**   
By Midge Wood

**Disclaimer:** Tony's imaginary, made-up family was imagined and made-up by me. Tony and the woman he longs for was created by Robert Cochran and Joel Surnow, and belongs to Fox and Real Time Productions.

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to Bridget for the information on newspapers and cancer, and to Rachel for the breif beta. Enjoy!

* * *

Almeida closed in on the suspect. He was sitting, unawares, in a corner by himself, plotting his deeds in secret. Almeida moved stealthy across the floor, around obstacles that threatened to trip the unwary walker. He was now standing behind the subject, ready to make his move…he crouched down on his knees, extended his arms, placed his hands under the arms of the suspect and said, "BOO!"

The little boy screamed and laughed. "Stop, Uncle Tony, stop!" he gasped between giggles.

"All right, all right," said Tony. He eased up his tickling and sat next to his nephew, observing him as he played with his toys. "What are you doing, Pedro?"

Pedro hummed. "I'm building something."

"What are you building?"

"A building."

"What kind of building."

Pedro shrugged. "Something cool."

Tony laughed. "All right. Need help?"

"No, thanks, Uncle Tony." Pedro turned to smile at him. Tony ruffled Pedro's hair, stood up, and stretched, looking around the living room. His sister-in-law Dana was rushing past with a full cookie sheet. She uttered a rushed greeting before she disappeared into the dining room. With the exception of Tony and Pedro, the living room was empty. The sounds that filled it were coming from the kitchen.

"Pedro," said Tony, "I'm going to go to the kitchen, okay?"

"Okay," said Pedro, fixing his eyes on his project. Tony crossed the living room floor into the kitchen, looking back at Pedro playing in front of the couch. He wasn't sure why he kept doing this; Pedro was at his parent's house, safe as could be. Tony shook his head and turned to observe the spectacle of the kitchen.

Pots, pans, platters, and plates were strewn across the counter and the stovetop. Two women occupied the kitchen, one of them wearing heels, the other dressed in a solid navy green skirt, a light green blouse, black stockings, and no shoes. This woman had a green-and-red striped apron wrapped around her waist, and her wavy, dark gray hair was not restrained in a ponytail or a hairnet. Tony wanted to sneak up on her, but she saw him first.

"Antonio!" she said. She placed the spatula she held on the counter, wiped her hands against the apron, and crossed the kitchen floor to give Tony a tight, warm hug. She pushed herself back and smiled. "You've come. How are you doing?"

"I'm doing fine, ma." Tony placed his arm around her shoulder. She was a few inches shorter than he. From where he stood he could see all the features he had inherited from her: the nose, the hands, but not the eyes. He had inherited his father's wide brown eyes, not his mother's soft green ones. Tony developed a bias towards that color ever since he had first gazed into his mother's eyes. While he had not actively sought out green-eyed women, he perpetually found such women to be irresistible. One such woman had been the cause of much internal grief lately. He had hoped, futilely, that she would not cross his mind today, but she did the moment his mother turned her gaze on him.

Tony sighed and kissed the top of his mother's head. "Where's Maria?" he asked.

"Over here." Tony looked over his mother's head to see his sister pulling her hair back in a ponytail. Like all the Almeida children, Maria had thick, wavy black hair. She was around her mother's height, a bit thicker sideways, but not overweight. In the rare occasion that Tony made the acquaintance of a student of note in high school, he would find himself bombarded with questions about his sister. Is she dating anyone? What kind of things does she like? Will you set me up with her? Amazingly, for all her beauty and popularity among men, she remained single to this day. She had given her heart to teaching music.

Maria was a strange character beyond this. She liked, for some inexplicable reason, to cook Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner in heels. The pair she wore today tapped against the kitchen floor as she rushed to give Tony a hug. "I'm mad at you," she said, jokingly. "You didn't come to the midnight mass last night! You missed me singing!"

"Oh." Tony frowned. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I forgive you. You will buy my first CD when it comes out, though, won't you?"

"Of course."

Maria smiled. "Well, Alex is outside."

Tony really didn't care where his brother was. "And pa?"

"In his bedroom."

Tony nodded. His mother pulled away from him and walked over to the oven. She opened up the door, took out a sheet of freshly baked cookies and placed them on the table. "Antonio, are you going to help us cook or are you going to watch us like a pair of zoo animals?"

"Um, I think I'm going to go upstairs and talk to pa," said Tony. His mother went about her business as if she had not heard Tony's announcement. He knew she had heard him; she just didn't want to think about his father lying sick in the bedroom. Tony exited the kitchen, entering the living room again where Pedro remained, building his cool building. Dana zoomed past him with an empty cookie sheet as he walked into the stairwell.

* * *

Tony's father had been diagnosed with lung cancer. All his fault, he would say. He was a compulsive smoker and a reluctant quitter, despite his wife's protests. It was an occupational hazard, he would say. He was a journalist—first a copy editor for the Chicago _Tribune_, then a sports writer for the San Francisco _Chronicle_. His father was the sole reason why the centerpiece of Tony's desk at CTU was a Chicago Cubs mug. Maybe it was his sympathy for a team that couldn't seem to get things right, but hadn't his father taken him to see the Cubs as a child, Tony might have never been interested.

His father's room was located at the end of the hall. He had been confined to that room for three months. There was some sign of his getting better, small signs that had cheered his family considerably for the holidays. It was unlikely, though, that his father would be joining them for dinner tonight. Tony stood in front of the door, closed his eyes, and knocked.

"Who is it?"

"It's Tony."

"Tonio! Come in old boy, come in!"

Tony turned the knob and opened the door. His father was lying in bed, surrounded by medical devices his mother had brought in from the hospital where she worked. The television was turned on, the volume low, going lower as his father pressed a button on the remote. "Hey," he said. "Come on over here. Take a seat."

Tony sat down in a chair next to his father's bed. "Hey, pa," he said.

"How are you doing, Tonio? How's life in Los Angeles?"

"Busy." Very busy—he was lucky enough to have gotten off early enough to drive to San Francisco himself. He had but a day to spend time with his family before he was expected back at work. "How about you? How have you been holding up?"

"Same old, same old. Can't complain—it's the same old stuff I've been going through for a year. I'm used to it by now."

Tony stared at his hands. His mother's hands. His father had small, stubby hands that awkwardly pressed against his prized typewriter. Tony always found it odd that his mother had the artist's hands, when she was in the medical field. His father's hands were decidedly ungraceful, dry, and burnt from all the cigarettes he smoked and all the coffee he spilled on them. There were times when Tony wished he had his father's hands—when his slender ones weren't enough to protect himself from a physical attack—but he felt bad whenever he looked at his hands and were pleased they were his mother's. Tony looked back at his father and grinned.

"Have you got yourself a woman?" his father asked. Tony looked down again.

"Not yet."

"Not yet? What are you waiting for? She taken?"

"Yeah." A hotness flashed in his cheeks at the thought.

"Is it serious? 'cuz if it's not you can always—"

"I'm not going to steal her from another man, pa, all right?"

"Then you must not want her that bad."

There was a reason why Tony rarely discussed his love life with his family. They always had something negative to say. Tony could have been married to an heiress, living off the fat of the land, a handful of beautiful children to preserve the family name, and they still would find something to their dissatisfaction. They were waiting for that dream son they were promised twenty-seven years ago. Tony—shy, quiet, studious Tony who had embraced science and technology—didn't fit the mold.

Oh, he was sure his parents were proud of him. He was working for the government and had served in the military, but something about the way his parents skirted around mentioning him to others made him feel as if he was less significant than his brother and sister. It was a given why Alex was the star of the family: a successful lawyer, Alex had graduated top of his class in undergraduate and law school, had married another lawyer and had a five-year-old son. Maria was working at a prestigious performing arts school and was a cantor at a fairly significant local church.

He was nothing to brag about. He had no children, no wife, no glamorous career. They knew that he sat behind a desk all day and analyzed computer data. They had no idea what he did to protect Los Angeles—to protect the country. Perhaps he would become more significant once he was married and have children. At least they could mention him when they spoke of their grandchildren. Tony rubbed his hands together and said, "I do want her, pa, but I'm not going to steal her. If she wants me, fine, but…"

"You want to do the right thing and date her legitimately, right?"

"Yeah."

"I understand. Your mother—when I first met her she was engaged to another man. I wanted her so bad; I thought to myself, 'Miguel, if you don't do something to stop that wedding you're gonna regret it for the rest of your life.' But I knew in my heart it was wrong to take another man's woman. I told her my feelings. I left it at that. I respected her wishes to marry another man. When the engagement dissolved, I felt so bad, like I had been the cause of the break up. She tells me to this day that it wasn't my fault, but, sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I wonder."

His father stared thoughtfully at the television set. Some holiday movie was playing; Tony knew he wasn't paying any attention to it. He heard a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" asked his father.

"Miguel? It's Rosa. Dinner's ready. Is Antonio there?"

"Yeah," his father shouted. "He's sitting next to me." His father looked at him. "Dinner's ready, Tonio. You gonna go down and eat?"

The door opened. His mother entered. "Antonio, are you going to go downstairs and eat with us or do you want to eat with your father?"

"I already asked him that question," his father said, as his mother sat down on the bed and took his father's hand in hers.

"I did not hear you. Antonio?"

Tony stared longingly at his parents. Something about the two of them together made his heart hurt. They both had something he didn't have. Why was he so envious of his parents? Why couldn't he be content with what he had? He never answered these questions with things that made him more optimistic. He always replied with the cold facts: he was single, he was lonely, he was lacking what he had wanted ever since his brother married Dana. Tony shook his head. He hadn't answered his parent's question.

"I think I'll stay with dad."

"Okay," said his mother. "Do you want me to bring up your dinner or do you want to fix your own plate?"

"I'll fix my plate. And pa's." Tony stood up and walked to the door, nodding as his father told him what he wanted from the feast downstairs. He made his selections quick, balanced the two plates as he walked up the stairs and joined his father in the act of watching Christmas films in solitude.


End file.
